


Adrenaline

by devotchka



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Breathplay, D/s, Fingerfucking, Gun Kink, M/M, Obedience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24962701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devotchka/pseuds/devotchka
Summary: “Captain.” Piers breathes.”Chris.” Chris stresses.Or, the one in which Piers struggles to normalize his own life.Drabbles and oneshots centered around power exchange, D/s, and intimacy.
Relationships: Piers Nivans/Chris Redfield
Comments: 3
Kudos: 72





	1. Chapter 1

Two in the morning; some seedy motel just outside of Edonia. In his head, Piers tried to add up every absurdity and happenstance that put him here, made him who he was, left him weak and unhinged and craving violated boundaries, pressed up against filthy walls a million miles from home.

He’d felt humiliated when please-don’t-hurt-me mentally shifted to please-hurt-me, when Captain Redfield whipped a gun across his cheek and he felt lust instead of fear. Even more so when Chris's palm rubbed against the front of his pants, his already hard cock, taunting the way he wanted such depraved things.

And he felt different like this -- out of control when so often he was not -- aware of his breath catching and his hysterical heartbeat in his chest, aware of the urge to push away and reflexively demand his autonomy back, aware of the pathetic wavering in his voice as his composure abandoned him. He’d wound up with his face pressed against the filthy wallpaper regardless, arms bound behind him by his own ripped off scarf, feeling pathetic, ashamed, somehow gratified.

He stood on weak legs, his hips arched back as the initial pain of Chris’s fingers pressing inside him faded. They pressed deeper, bottoming out with each thrust, hitting a spot that made him shake and clench and gasp. His own pistol unkindly dug into his cheek, a cruel reminder not to struggle.

The thing was that a part of him didn’t _want_ to struggle; he felt something authentic here. Here, like this, things like warfare and recruitment and perfection didn’t mean a thing. Power and control wound up beyond him, shifted into the hands of someone else. Here, as terrifying as it may feel, he found himself entirely entrusted to someone else.

And despite all he was he could never hold out for very long. His composure slipped too fast, and he couldn’t stop the broken pleas from escaping his lips. He’d tried, back when this all started, to be quiet and in control of himself even if he couldn’t be of the situation. He’d tried everything, and always failed.

Chris knew his type too well. He knew just what buttons to push. He knew how to manipulate his Type A personality, how to make everything into a challenge he must perservere through, how to make sex the most fulfilling thing Piers had ever known.

Chris towered over him. He was taller and broader and older. He knew what it took to dominate, knew how to make plans and contingencies for those plans, and Piers thought that there wasn't anyone else in the world that he would submit to like this. There was no one as capable as him -- no one who _knew_ him quite like this.

Chris's fingers sped up their pace, and Piers trembled beneath him. He felt the urge to say something, and didn't know what that something should be.

"Don't make a sound." Chris said, as if he knew. "I don't want to hear you."

Piers was never anything less than obedient for him -- never anything less than perfect. Again, he did as he was told, and said nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

Piers is starting to bruise.

It’s mostly subtle things: long, jagged marks from Chris’s nails at his back, thin blotches of red and purple along his thighs, hickies and bite marks dotting his hipbones and his throat, faint palm sized welts.

Most of them will heal quickly, but Piers doesn’t seem to mind them being there at all. No, he seems to prefer it this way. Pain gets him in the mood and keeps him there, and barely ten minutes passes before he’s back in Chris’s lap.

They express it differently, but he and Chris both have what could be considered dominant personalities. Chris thinks it’s only natural this kind of behavior eventually bled into their bedroom. It started out innocently enough, with provoking comments and teasing, with Piers challenging and caving. Suddenly the phrase “make me” began roughly translating into “fuck me”, and half the time no one kept track of why.

He doesn’t mind, now, causing all those bruises.

Piers wants it like this at weird times, vulnerable times, moments where Chris sees him trying to lose track of the outside world and its inevitable pressures and worries. It’s when he has doubts and can’t find the words to label them. It’s when things are unpredictable, and he’s searching for something grounding, something to keep him safe and whole.

Those nights are the ones where love suddenly looks more violent than it is: Piers’s face smothered in sheets and pillows, those muffled pleas, the restraints that cling tightly around his wrists. They push the limits of their trust just to see what’ll happen. It always comes back stronger.

So, he looks down at all that marked skin – the welts and bruises and scratches there – and it doesn’t feel like he used to think it would. It doesn’t feel like vicious conquest. It feels oddly like care.


	3. Chapter 3

There’s much to be said about how good Piers sounds when he finally loses his composure, the panting and soft moans and the dirty things he says when he’s fucked particularly well. Chris finds it thrilling to bend Piers’s pride until it’s unrecognizable for a moment, until the only words he can think of sound desperate.

It’s captivating to hear his name said with such reverence, over and over; it’s exciting to see that change in demeanor, the man who speaks such composed words to him in public suddenly so filthy.

It should be a sin, the way he runs his mouth in bed.

There’s also much to be said about when that’s taken away, when it’s muffled by a hand clamping over his mouth or a pillow against his face or, like tonight, fingers around his neck, squeezing down hard.

Without that steady stream of praise and depravity, every other sound is amplified. There’s Chris hearing himself panting, telling Piers how warm and tight and perfect he feels. There’s the bed and their motions. There’s the wet sound of his cock slamming into him over and over.

There’s the way Piers moves, struggling a bit but never really fighting it, his hands flying up to close around Chris’s wrist and still he tips his head back and exposes more of himself. Chris tightens his grip, and some helpless noise starts to rise in him among everything else before softly dying in his throat.

Piers accepts pain so willingly, his legs wrapping tight around Chris’s waist, trembling in that way that says he’s close, growing unbearably tight. It’s supposed to feel different like this, more intense somehow, and it’s like the more he squeezes the more Piers does in return.

Piers comes softly, his jaw set and his head thrown back, barely any sound to be muffled by his lips. His insides twitch and spasm, and he takes in a loud, desperate breath as Chris releases his grip on his throat.

He wants to _hear_ him for the rest of this.


	4. Chapter 4

What could he have done better?

It’s the question of Piers’s life. He grew up with authoritarian parents, always demanding perfection. Then he moved on to a career where every choice is irredeemable and _must_ be just right.

He isn’t cut out for it. He thinks too much, and he feels too much.

It’s why he’s laying awake on his first night off in weeks – thinking and obsessing – as his partner lies peacefully on his way to sleep. Piers tosses and turns, pouring over scenarios in his head, adding up every choice and action that he could have influenced better.

He thinks about the men who are lying injured in a hospital tonight, and about the ones who won’t be coming home at all.

He thinks again about what he could have done differently.

He sighs.

“Piers.” Chris says, and his tone says _you sound bothered_.

Piers doesn’t want to entertain it.

“Piers.” Chris repeats, a little firmer this time. “I know what you’re doing.”

Piers says nothing, too lost in his thoughts to be pulled out, and Chris rolls over to face him. He reaches up for Piers’s face, cupping it in his hands.

“Look at me.” He insists.

Hesitantly, Piers does. He doesn’t like what he sees – sympathy, and care, and knowledge that, yes, he really _does_ know what Piers has been up to mentally. He doesn’t want to be treated with care.

“It’s really okay-“ He tries.

Chris isn’t having any of it. “I know you’re thinking about the mission.” He says. “You’re pouring over all the details and trying to pick out exactly the one that makes every bad thing your fault.”

He is. He doesn’t agree either way.

“It isn’t good for you.”

Chris’s hands are warm and solid and _alive_ against the sides of Piers’s face, and it’s so hard not to feel guilty. He doesn’t know if it’s even possible.

“I know.” He admits.

He just doesn’t know how to stop it.

Chris’s thumb absentmindedly brushes across Piers’s cheek, and when Piers looks up at him, he sees a gentle fondness in his expression. Maybe something like love. Piers meets his gaze for just a second, and then Chris is leaning down and pulling him into a slow, lingering kiss.

It feels good. That’s the first thing Piers focuses on. It feels good to be pressed so close to Chris’s body, so wanted, and he melts into it.

It’s the first thing he’s been able to rest his attention on all night. Piers battles his stubbornness, his urge to obsess and overthink, and it dissipates under Chris’s touch, the only man who’s never led him wrong.

“Let me take care of you.” Chris suggests in between kisses.

Piers almost trembles at the thought. “Captain.” He breathes.

“ _Chris_.” Chris stresses.

Piers kisses him again. Hands feel heavier when their touch is intimate, and as soon as it starts it _really_ starts, Piers grabbing onto the front of Chris’s shirt and pulling him down close, letting his scent fill his head and his closeness overwhelm him.

Chris reaches over towards the nightstand and drops something down onto the bed. He’d brought lube with him, confirming how premeditated this all was, and something about that is calming to Piers. It looks a lot like consent.

What’s going to happen between them goes unspoken. Clothes simply come off, and Chris tears the cap off the lube and dumps it all over his hand, and then he’s in between Piers’s spread legs, breaching him with his fingers.

Piers’s initial reaction to having two soaking wet fingers push into him is almost clinical – they’re addressing a problem, almost like being examined or treated or anything medical. It’s uncomfortable, until suddenly it isn’t.

Chris hits something deep in him, something that sends a tight, quick burst of pleasure up his spine, and he does it again and again, and it’s overwhelming. It makes him pant, makes his hips roll into Chris’s hand, makes his head tip back and his legs spread. He can feel Chris’s eyes on him, and it sends a thrill through his body.

Piers loves this. Before Chris, he’d never considered himself to be a very sexual person. Then he’d handed over his virginity and realized that sex was the perfect outlet, a zenith, an entire private world where nothing but physicality matters. It slips him out of his own head. _Chris_ gets him out of his own head.

It feels like torture, those deep, rapid thrusts. They’re promising him something he can’t quite have yet. His legs tremble. His breath hitches. Chris’s mouth presses against the curve of his neck and his skin feels like it’s on fire.

“Please.” He begs, can’t help himself, “I need…”

But he doesn’t know what it is he needs. He just knows it’s not this.

It isn’t enough. He fears that nothing will be enough. For one overwhelming moment, he doesn’t know whether Chris is helping him or simply making everything worse, and he doesn’t know how he’ll cope with feeling this pent up any longer.

Chris doesn’t ask him to explain himself. He doesn’t tease him or slow down. He seems to be just as hurried as Piers is, tugging his pants down just far enough to free his cock. He lines it up with Piers’s hole and slowly, gently begins to push in.

Even blinded with lust, it feels like Chris barely fits. The stretch is immediate, and Chris tries to soothe it by tipping Piers’s head up, by kissing him softly, but it quickly winds up filthy. Piers just can’t accept niceties right now.

Chris takes his time working into him, pressing in more and more with each thrust, until Piers is tensing up below him and somehow getting even tighter. He’s surprised by how _good_ it feels, by the lack of real pain he was so sure he’d feel.

All he’s getting is massive waves of pleasure. They crash through him unpredictably and powerfully, leaving him with a burning desire to keep going, to ask for more, and one of Chris’s thrusts hit a particularly sensitive spot in him and that does it.

“Oh, fuck, right there.” He gasps, and so Chris stays on that spot; he moves faster, and Piers is grabbing at his back, his short nails digging into the skin there. “Oh my god, _Chris_.”

Chris moans. He cups Piers’s face in both hands and presses their mouths together, kissing him with urgency, and some time in between the kissing and moaning and panting Piers is saying his name again, and again, Chris fucking into his clenching body like he’s a toy.

This is exactly what he needed. He knows that now, and he never should’ve denied it to himself. Chris is _exactly_ what he needed. He comes hard, and it feels like relief, and even though he’s done he’s still somehow pleased to get Chris off, too.

When it’s over, and they’re both just laying in his bed, Piers feels conflicted. He wonders if this should’ve happened at all. Does he feel better? Enormously. But emotionally better is an entirely different, far more finicky thing.

The adrenaline fades, and the thoughts he’d been so desperate to avoid come crawling back to the surface. Piers doesn’t want to ruin a good thing. He just can’t help it when he ruins the peace and calm, asking, “Does it ever get any easier?”

He imagines that Chris can’t help the honest, depressing no he replies with, either.

**Author's Note:**

> Even though I didn't force this to be more than a snapshot glance into a dynamic, I still liked these words enough to post them. I might continue to add onto this as a sort of PWP collection; feel free to keep an eye out if this is your thing.


End file.
